


Feathers Everywhere

by essexmermaid



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essexmermaid/pseuds/essexmermaid
Summary: Fred Thursday struggles to cope with the unending horrors of his police work. The canaries rescue him.“He holds the canary lightly in his hand, fingers wrapped carefully around the fragile body, thinking how easy it would be to crush the living breath from it, leaving nothing but blood and gore and ruined feathers.”
Relationships: Fred Thursday - Relationship, Fred Thursday/Win Thursday, Win Thursday - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	Feathers Everywhere

1\. Feathers Everywhere

In recent weeks Fred has sunk into a black mood that he cannot shake off. The scenes of death he’s witnessed along the towpath have upset him terribly, and his frustration at not being able to catch the killer have soured into self recrimination and a bitter anger.

So when he notices the canaries for sale on the market, Fred doesn’t even hesitate. He buys a cock and a hen with a vague idea of breeding them like his father used to do. He carries them triumphantly home, the little birds an offering to cheer his wife, hoping to be praised for his consideration.

But Win is not amused.

“Feathers everywhere!” she immediately objects.

“It’s not feathers everywhere, and if it is I’ll see to it!” he snaps at her, annoyed that she can’t understand what these birds mean; a peace offering to her, a comfort for him, a distraction for both of them. 

“It’s two birds, they’re not going to bother you” he claims.

“Well, where are we going to put them?” she continues scornfully.

That’s it, he’s had enough! His gift has been rejected, his own brief excitement quashed, his wife’s ridicule all too apparent.

Fred yells at her.

“Up my arse, Winifred. That’s where we’re gonna put them. Up my arse like David Nixon!”.

There is a moment’s stony silence, Win shocked and dismayed, while Fred trembles with anger.

“I’m just asking,” Win replies, greatly offended. “No need for language!”.

“In a cage,” he retorts dismissively, “where do you think?”, his voice rising as he waves his arms in agitation.

“I just saw them and I wanted them and I bought them and that’s it and that’s all”.

Fred is stumbling over his words, angry at himself for losing his temper, annoyed at Win for challenging him, unable to offer a coherent explanation for having bought the canaries.

“Thought it might be something nice, something not…”

Christ, it’s coming out now and he can’t stop himself.

“Blood and….”. He looks down, unable to look at her, “cruelty.” 

Fred turns away. He’s letting the demons out, here in his own home.

“Hatred.”

He can’t contain himself any more.

“What one person will do to another.” He blurts it out, accusing her of not understanding, of not seeing how torn apart he has become. “You’ve no idea.”

Fred turns his back on his wife. He cannot continue like this or it will all come pouring out of him, the hatred, the vile, cruel, bloody things it makes people do. And he has seen it all. He has finally seen too much.

But Fred cannot let these horrors into his home or he will find no peace anywhere, and he must keep Win safe from all that. He suddenly clams up, determined to say no more. He wrenches himself around and without looking at Win, he staggers from the room. 

Win, appalled at his anger, does not go after him. She had no idea he had got this wound up or what has provoked him. She knows she cannot help just now, he needs time to simmer down. She is, for the first time in their long marriage, just a little bit afraid of what her husband might do.

2\. Feathered Friends

Fred stomps off, ashamed at his outburst. He’s bought those two canaries on a whim, thinking no further than the pleasure of seeing them soft and fluttering, holding them in his hands. They remind him with a rush of nostalgia of helping his Dad, as a child, when the old man kept canaries back in the East End.

He carries the two boxes carefully out to the shed. There is a light rustling from within the cardboard. The birds are quiet, exhausted he guesses, on being transferred from their market cage into these miserable boxes.

He is still angry with Win and with himself for losing his temper with her. The pressure of his job is grinding him down ….but for a moment, right here and now, he allows himself to be distracted from his constant worries. 

“There now, there, there,” he whispers to calm both the canaries and himself, his own heart beating nervously.

He opens first the box containing the cock bird who has been scratching impatiently for release. The little canary hops out uncertainly, dazed in the glare of the neon strip light.

“That’s better, eh?” asks Fred, peering closely at the rumpled creature. 

He smiles with relief as he watches the cock stretch out his ruffled feathers and start to preen himself, putting right the indignities of having been cooped up. The little fellow has a pretty plumage, deep yellow, proper canary coloured thinks Fred, like Dad’s birds used to be.

“Now then,” he says, worried how the hen bird, silent in her box, has fared. He opens it up to find the smaller canary slumped in a corner, ragged and motionless.

“Oh no!” he sighs, assuming the hen has died, whether through the shock of being moved or the stress of being contained in the small box.

Sick of death reaching out to him yet again, after the strain of the dead bodies on the towpath, he feels the horrors of the outside world rise up again. He fights to regain composure, trying to focus only on the soft, feathered little body in front of him.

Sadly he reaches out a shaking finger to stroke the gorgeous yellow feathers. He is absurdly upset at the loss of the little thing. But she stirs under his gentle touch, and he catches his breath in hope she may survive.

“That’s right, that’s it,” he breathes with relief as the hen staggers to her feet and shakes herself.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he reassures her as he reaches out to pick her up to look at her more closely.

He holds the canary lightly in his hand, fingers wrapped carefully around the fragile body, thinking how easy it would be to crush the living breath from it, leaving nothing but blood and gore and ruined feathers.

He shakes his head to dispel the violent thoughts that have plagued him these past weeks.

These tiny fragile canaries rely on him now, and he will do his best to keep them safe. As in his police work and with his family, Fred takes his responsibilities very seriously. 

“There now,” he whispers as he feeds them each a few drops of sugar water to revive them. 

He chuckles with delight as the canaries creep about the workbench, shaking out crushed feathers and pulling at their plumage with their sharp little beaks. 

“That’s it, that’s right,” he murmurs as they peck up a few seeds delicately from his open palm.

He is lost for a while in the simple pleasure of watching these innocent creatures. The cares of his profession fall away. He relaxes, perhaps for the first time in months, distracted by his feathered friends. 

He chatters to them as they feed, whilst he lines a shoe box with a ragged towel preparing an overnight bed for them. The hen hops over to inspect their makeshift nest, and Fred is delighted that she settles in, clearly tired out, and the cock follows her lead.

“Goodnight my darlings!” he whispers, scooping up each in turn to kiss their feathered brows. “Goodnight, sleep tight.”

3\. Going For A Song

The next day being Saturday, Win is surprised to find that her husband has gone out early. Last night he slept in Sam’s old room, back to the bad old days when they couldn’t even share a bed together. He’s left without speaking to her at all, not so much as a “Good morning”, never mind an explanation of where he’s going. She waits for him, worried about him. She racks her brains to think how she might get him to open up to her, talk things over, get some of his worries off his chest. 

He’s more likely to talk to those flipping canaries, she realises, than talk to her. 

As the hours drag by, Win frightens herself into believing that if he won’t talk to her then maybe Fred no longer needs her, not to talk to, not for anything really. But worse still is the fear that, when he is obviously under so much pressure, she can’t help him.

At last, with a clatter and a couple of mild expletives under his breath, Fred lets himself in the front door. Win darts into the hall to greet him, astonished at what she sees. Fred, beaming, triumphantly holds up a battered bird cage he’s lugged indoors.

“Just the job!” he exclaims, “Got it second hand on the market. Going for a song!”.  
“What’s this, then?” she wonders.  
“For a song!” he chuckles to himself. “Geddit?”

Win is so surprised at his jovial manner that she stands and stares as he makes for the back door.

“Where are you going with that?” she enquires timidly.  
“Take it down the shed,” he answers as he pushes past. “Clean up a treat, I reckon.”

He shuts the back door behind him without a second look at her. Win watches him through the kitchen window, hauling the cage down the garden path to the shed. He hesitates a moment, listening at the door for his canaries. He starts talking to them even as he edges through the door, not wanting to startle them. And then he’s in the shed, alone with his beloved birds, working on the cage for the rest of the day. 

Win, upset at her husband’s indifference towards her, wonders how she will ever get through to him.

4\. The Bold Cat

Fred is, as usual, with his canaries. He delights in watching the two birds flutter about their cage, as he whistles to them, chuckling when they sing back to him. 

“There, now, there,” croons Fred to his precious charges.

The cock often sings out, a delicate high warbling song meant to attract his mate. Instead the sweet temptation has snared Fred. He is in love with the tiny birds. He spends hours watching them contentedly, the cares of the world and the horrors of his police work kept at bay.

Suddenly next door’s cat appears, miaowing at the delicious sight. Fred reacts immediately in defence of his canaries.

“Get out of it!” he snarls protectively, “Before you get my toe up your arse!”

He makes a lunge at the cat to frighten it out.

“Gertcha!” 

The bold cat makes a quick escape, slinking out the back door.

“Alright, alright, it’s alright,” Fred turns back to his birds, calming them by rumbling endearments in his low, rich baritone. He offers reassurance until they return to their sweet singing and he to his contented contemplation.

If only everything in life were so easy to put right, thinks Fred, shaking his head. He has hardly spoken to his wife since he brought home the canaries, preferring to talk to them rather than argue or lose his temper with Win. Sooner or later he’ll have to make his peace with her, he knows, but for now this is the only way he can keep bottled up all the hate and violence he faces in his job. 

He knows if he allows that vile mess to spew out in front of his wife, whom he has sheltered as much as could through the long years of marriage, then there would be no way he can repair such a dreadful failing. He must keep her safe until he can get better control of the situation. 

Sadly, he turns back to the canaries.

“There, now, there!” he rumbles, “No need to worry. I’m here, now, I’m here.”

5\. A Good Dad

Win turns off the television, bored of watching by herself. She is tired of spending so much time alone these days. Even when Fred is at home, he sits in the other room rather than with his wife. She goes into the back room knowing he will be with his beloved canaries, preferring their company to her own.

“What’s this, Fred?” she asks him, “sitting in the dark?”

He winces when she flicks on the switch, then glances at the canaries who rustle in their cage at the sudden light. He gets to his feet to reassure them, laying his fingertips gently on the bars and murmuring softly to them.

She sees that he has his tattered photo album laid out on the table, open at a faded picture of his own family. She hasn’t seen this photo in years but knows it of old.

“Looking through the photos of Dad,” he whispers to the canaries.

Win looks at the photo of Fred, a sturdy, laughing little boy, held in his father’s arms. His brother Charlie, still a toddler, clings to his mother’s side as she cradles their youngest in her arms. 

“Don’t you take after your father!” she exclaims. “You can really see the resemblance now you’re older”.

“He never really got his health back, after,” Fred reminds her. 

After his father came back from the trenches, Fred meant, invalided home, hollowed out by mustard gas and pneumonia. His father was never the same big, handsome fellow he’d before the Great War. His consolations were his family, whom he adored, and his canaries.

“No,” Win sighs. “Is that what’s got you wanting these canaries? Remind you of you dear old Dad, do they?”

Fred nods, watching the canaries settle down. And then at last he starts to explain why he bought them. Fred gazes at the caged birds, talking quietly to Win without looking at her, so as not to disturb the canaries.

“He was a wonderful Dad, always playing with us lads when he got the chance. And he loved his canaries. Let me help out when I was old enough. Taught me how to hold them, clean ‘em out, feed and water them. Had a big cage he’d built in the back yard to keep them in. I’d go in there with dozens of them fluttering round me. Landing on me, pecking at my hair, singing so sweetly.”

Fred smiles fondly at the memory, blinking back tears.

“He was a good Dad,” he croaks, a lump in his throat.

Win, moved by Fred finally opening up to her after so many weeks of miserable silence, tries to comfort him.

“He’d be proud of you, Fred, love. You’re a good Dad, too, just like he was.”

Fred huffs, hesitating to accept the compliment, but aching for just a little kindness. 

“Not so sure about that,” he counters, thinking of the distance he put between himself and his daughter last year.

“I am!” his wife insists. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs recently but you always put the kids and me first. You’ve been a wonderful Dad to them, still are.” 

They stand in silence for a while watching the canaries quiet down.

Eventually Fred turns to her, taking her by the shoulders, and bends to kiss her cheek gently.

“I’m sorry, love” he apologises for all the silences they’ve endured between them. “I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”

“You can always talk to me, you know. Not just to those canaries!” she laughs, teasing him gently.

“Dad used to talk to his birds all the time,” objects her husband, taking up the joke.

“Tell me about the time he first gave you a bird of your own,” she coaxes, knowing how Fred loves to tell that story. She leads him next door, turning out the light and leaving the canaries to sleep.

They sit together on the sofa, talking quietly, reconciled and affectionate once more. As she snuggles into her husband’s side, Win sends up a silent “Thankyou” to the little canaries who have unwittingly brought the two of them back together at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing Morse into this fic but his behaviour towards Thursday has been so “arrogant, conceited” in Season 7 that it got too bitter so I left Morse out of the final draft to make it a bit lighter.


End file.
